


Continuity Errors

by LeannaMenace



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Assassin Mary Morstan, Canon Compliant Pre-Series 4, Doctor John Watson, Drug Use, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hallucinations, M/M, Mind Palace, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 17:23:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9133915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeannaMenace/pseuds/LeannaMenace
Summary: What happened after they left the tarmac...Canon Compliant Pre-Series 4





	

"221b Baker Street." 

The words slip out of him with feigned confidence as he is trying to stave off dreamless slumber. The driver – single, no kids, one big dog - nods in confirmation, not even turning to look at them.

“Just the back of an 'ead.”

John saved him that night. He was a knight in check-shirt armour with a steady hand and unflinching determination. He hovered on the margins, patiently waiting to be swept up and blown away by him, the charming and addictive stranger, the new flatmate, the clever idiot. John never quite got it. But Sherlock did. In that moment he knew. The air was buzzing with lights and repressed rain, noises were drawn out in London smog and he could still smell the remnants of the adrenaline. The increased perspiration of his own transport, Lestrade's musky undertone, that pungent fragrance of fear that engulfed onlookers. And John. 

Sherlock caught sight of him and remembered the metallic taste in his mouth. He had bitten his tongue when the firing sound cut through his dilemma. To take the pill or not to take the pill. Sherlock knew. Did he really though? He needed more data, surely. Analyses, graphs, charts - yes, charts. Pie charts, flow charts, bar charts, all the charts. Still, somehow he did know. There was a high chance the wires had got crossed, leading him to mistake sentiment for knowledge. Disturbing. How to uncross them? More importantly, how to convince himself that he wanted that? Fascinating. Not boring. Not boring at all.

He knew that in the future their roles would be reversed and challenged. There would come a night when John would be in danger and he would perform the role of a dashing hero. Or both of them would need to save the day and be saved in return. Predictable. But there's more. He knew, whatever came, they would gravitate towards each other. And most of all, he knew that John was a scalpel of precision that engraved his heart without spilling a drop of blood. He was his perfect man in spite of being broken or rather precisely because of it. If it hadn't been for the scars that lined his body and soul, one would not have been able to look away or even blink. The scarless surface would have burnt the eyes out and the true core of John would have never been discovered. Instead he saw it. The heart of the matter under the weathered epidermis. He observed. Scars or no scars, it was still hard to look away. And he knew. The other man waiting wordlessly and expecting to be blown away by him - it was the other way around. John was the blowing force. His East Wind.

"Like hell we're going to Baker Street!" 

John. His stern, determinate voice pushes through Sherlock's absorption and he feels it in his now almost violet veins that are still straining under the blotched skin. His voice. He would recognize it everywhere, even now when he is subdued and lost in the stupors of the post-overdose stage. John. His best friend leans forward and faces the driver. A movement that seems so simple yet would require more energy of Sherlock that he has right now. He does manage to open his eyelids and sees more than enough. John. His posture, combined with this particular tone - metallic on the margins, molten in the middle - will not allow any objections.

"To the nearest hospital. And quickly." 

There's not a moment to lose. 

John shifts backwards and stares him down.

"What?"

Oh, he actually said that bit out loud. 

His blogger's face is lit with confusion and something else. It might be concern. Is it? He dares to have such hopes now; he lets himself savour the possibilities. Probabilities. John does care. John worries. John wants to know everything. In the meantime the here and now John is still domineering and towering, knowing full well that Sherlock won't give up without a fight. After all, as a younger child he's had years of experience in strengthening his standpoints and thus reasserting his own existence. Though, to be quite honest, those battles were mostly channelled through petulant and confrontational behaviour. 

“I'm not a child anymore.”

No, he isn't. He must get it right this time. He must. This is a battle he must lose.

“The only way I'm entering hospital right now is through my mind palace. Or if you tie me up and drag me in there.”

Right, postponing the part about losing. Also, trust him to sound stroppy and kinky at the same time. 

“Don't think for a moment I wouldn't do that. I'm prepared to take drastic measures just as you were prepared to go to the extremes.”

And trust John to be stubborn and … obliging. Obliging? Yes, obliging. Always his obliging helpmate.

Their chests are heaving now, each breath a conscious effort, each gulp of air a deliberate rhythm. Always together, always together.

“John, there's really no time for hospitals and other useless procedures. I need to focus my attention on Moriarty.” 

He slurred his name – Jaaawn – there's nothing to be done about that. The word has passed on, yet he can still feel it against his lips. Back in his throat, down the spinal cord. An unconscious word, knocked out - instinctive. Always on the tip of his tongue. Still, the utterer is aware. The movements of his oral cavity are deliberate and very much conscious. He knows the difference. He often craves to forget it but not in this particular moment. He must stay awake. Focus on the present John. Right...  
Meanwhile, the blogger huffs out his building ire; his right hand clenching into a fist and gradually relaxing. A finger at a time. Definitely vexed. Still, there's more under his exasperated exterior. There's always something.

You've disappointed him. 

No. No, it's something else. 

Fear.

John Watson is frightened. 

Frightened. His John.

It is not difficult to let yet another so-called imperfection shade the colours of his man. The pedestals are for people with no grasp of reality or measure. For illusion-filled addicts and romantic dupes. He is neither of those. He is disillusioned and has a PhD in the overall benefits of methodical skepticism. Nevertheless, he is aware of his own bias when it comes to John. Scientific reasoning doesn't work in this equation. His John is perfect while the real John is far from it. But then, who's to say that the one belonging to him is any less real. Or that the real one is any less his. Confusing. Infuriating. Interesting.

When he was busy arranging the wedding, he had that inexplicable desire to recite a list of superior wines and use tea lights in the vicinity of bathroom tiles. It didn't even depend on whether John was present or not, but it certainly became more pronounced whenever he was. And then there's that ceaseless longing. The longing to run his fingers through the seemingly bristly hair at (on?) the nape of John's neck, to trace John's jugular veins with his nose, to suck on John's tongue. Pull, inhale, devour. The urge is constantly there, like an itch around his heart. Silly. Psychosomatic. Irreversible.  
So, he's quite aware that John should not be placed on a pedestal and yet, he managed to do just that. Paradox. No, he needs to amend that statement. The pedestals are for people with no or little grasp of reality or measure. Needless to say, he falls into the second category. To hell with wrong reality and boring measure.

Where people see an unassuming, average man with a PTSD and a medical license, he sees an extraordinary, incentive person with anger issues and a saviour complex. Currently, that man is angry and frightened. Dangerous combination. Worried for him. Even more dangerous. What the world would regard as a sign of weakness, Sherlock recognizes as self-preserving shrewdness. John is regaining control while superficially slipping it away. Whatever takes to let out the trembles and insecurities. But most of all, John is astute. Very good. If their conversation is a game of chess, then his best man just struck a decisive move.

Check.

Sherlock knows a lost game when he sees one. He will not play dead though. He will lie down and lose to John, only to John, when he is resolutely ready and not a moment before. The game should always unfold until the very end. No point in skipping the last part, the part about points of pressure, weak spots, and other unfortunate heels. He looks away and doesn't let these observations rattle him in the slightest. He must soothe John. 

“In case I need medical attention, you're more than equipped to take care of me.”

“For god's sake, Sherlock! You need -- ”

A mild explosion of words uttered in a matter-of-fact voice interrupts John before he can draw another breath.

“I once glimpsed at your CV, I know one of your specialties skills is treating overdose. Even though you didn't seem to observe one before - probably due to sentiment clouding your judgement, after all, John, you are not such an idiot - you're still capable of dealing with one when it is spelled out and thrown at you -- ”

“If you don't shut up right now in this very moment I swear I'll deal with you in a manner that is neither medical nor ethical. You need to go to the hospital and if I have to haul you in there, so be it!”

There are four seconds of pure silence reverberating through them, filling them up until they are drowning in the sea of dormant words. One. Silence. A study in silence. Two. Something about cages. Cages? Some other John. Three. Not important then, lacking his only feature of interest. He must have deleted it. Clever. Four.

"You know he's right."

Mary is sitting on the other side so John is practically squeezed between them in the back seat.

Mary. A new player.

In between...

...Afghanistan or Iraq? 

“You know he's right.”

She utters those words with an unreadable expression, her voice showing no signs of sentiment, her whole demeanour being almost businesslike while her fingers tap away on the phone with the speed of someone who can load the gun blindfolded in mere seconds. Not long ago he would admire, envy even, the ability to appear so completely emotionless, practical, and rational. He has tried to perfect that his entire adult life. It seems as if it came naturally to her. He knows better though. Assassins are trained that way. Broken down and reconstructed. There was a point in her life when she snapped and couldn't go back. The point of no return. What made her the way she is? What disrupted the mechanisms that tick away in her?  
Or more importantly, why is she interrupting their game? Chess is a game for two, always two.

“You know he's right.”

Check.

The fingers have ceased their movements; her hands are now gently folded in the lap, embracing her conspicuous belly. Is it real? Is any of this real? For all he knows, a kangaroo might jump out of her paunch and attack him. Or present a cake to Mycroft. He sure loves those. Something about jumping out of a cake... He used to tease his big brother about that but it seems he's forgotten the punchline. Or the background of the joke. No, not forgotten, deleted. Never mind. 

His hands might be shaking a bit so he grasps his knees - not too tightly though - he doesn't want to appear anxious. He must preserve his facade while the drugs bid farewell to the nervous system.

So, where was he? Right, talking about the kangaroo assassin, who also manages to bake cakes in their free time. Perfectly normal visions, nothing wrong with that...except that it doesn't quell the panic that's been spreading the branches of regret, despair, and envy ever since that night. So envious...or is it jealous? Yes, jealous. Jealous of open curtains and joyful rhythms, of her arms around him, and her lips tasting his. The newlyweds. They laughed at those seemingly casual words that pierced through his stiff upper lip and almost made him cry. Him...crying at a wedding though. What a dreadful affair that would have been. And he wasn't even drunk. Thankfully. Perhaps slightly high on sugar and repressed emotions. His sweet tooth gets more pronounced when he's distressed. Which brings us back to the murderous kangaroo baker.

The truth is nothing would surprise him at this point. Nevertheless, he is rambling, rabbiting on, slipping. Must. Refocus. Now.

Still, the reality stays hard to pinpoint. 

He is definitely awake, that much he's able to confirm. His sense of humour is fully back. He's never bothered to translate it to his mind palace entirely. It is, after all, only a memory technique and he doesn't need to remind himself how to be funny. He's a natural when it comes to that. When he lets his guard down. Who cares if others don't necessarily see it that way. A hateful bunch. Idiots. John usually does. A smiling not-a-complete-idiot. He crumbles like a piece of rustling paper when he laughs. A puckered letter of invitation. Those lines around his cerulean eyes deepened. Tight lips. A flash of his glistened tongue touching the teeth. His mouth. Fuck.

The use of expletives. It happens rarely. Definitely not stored in his mind palace. Further evidence of his conscious state. 

Mycroft used to laugh with him too when they were younger. Oh yes, a lady jumping out of a cake! Him quipping that the lady left his brother quite cold - the cake, on the other hand... He remembers Mycroft's grin - he could never delete those simpler moments, no matter how hard he tried.

The aftermath of his drug-fuelled excursion is settling in even more fiercely now, shifting perspectives and making everything seem drowsy and languid yet somehow alert and bristling. 

They cut the cake eventually. What a lady, what a cake. Is John his...cake? And where is Mycroft anyway? Is he following them in another car? No, he entrusted him to John...John...loyal, protective John.  
Jaaawn.  
Why on earth couldn't he wait for six more months? All those times he nearly left him a note, a sign...something to give him hope and regain his vigour. But then again, he was right to call him “machine”. He was right to move on. He was also right to choose him as his best man. Of course he knows that. His John's always right. 

It's electrifying.

“Sherlock!”

Her fingers snap in front of his face and he immediately opens his eyes. A shiver runs through his body and, before he can stop it, his right hand stumbles across his chest, searching for that spot. It only adds to the tension in the car that has been moving for some time now. One glance through the window tells him everything he needs to know to determine the route. The driver is clearly aware of who's in charge here.  
Certainly not an addict...never the addict.

“John's right.”

She says it pointedly, her lips pursed, fingers restless in the pockets of her coat now.  
Is she typing something on her phone again? She took his on the plane as if it were hers. But it's not. Definitely not. He just wants to go back and fix it...not the phone, obviously...obviously.

There is a budding urge inside of him to tell her - tell everyone for that matter - he's well aware of the fact that his John is always right. To say it out loud. Perchance shout it from those mountainous rocks in Dartmoor. 

His collar popped up, his cheekbones red in the howling wind. John almost humming with pleasure at the sight. Licking his lips... Stop that! Focus, you need to focus! Right...here he goes.

He is certain of many things, among them the following: Helium's atomic number is 2. John was right to move in with him. Morphine is bad for the work but cocaine gets things done. John was right to challenge him. Bach died on 28th July in 1750. John was right even when he chose her.  
Was he? Of course, his John is always right. Say it then...

The words seem to be stuck in some almost forgotten place, on a dusty upper shelf, or in a bygone book that belongs to their time together. Dormant words.  
Not, not forgotten, locked away in a room on the fifth floor, door seven on the right side. The room he created anew during that week. Solitary confinement was not his enemy. It was his confidant.

The other John, the so-called real one - he might not be right all the time. Request for more data pending. If he had a psychotherapist, they would be proud of him right now. Good boy, good boy. You're almost there. Just say it out loud. Say it now. Instead he bites his lower lip and averts the eyes. John has been staring at him the whole time, his forehead creasing like those shirts of his, the ones that he keeps folded and ready to pack. There's Mary's suitcase, waiting for her to go in labour, and then there's another one...tucked away, hidden, waiting for him to return to Baker Street.  
Gazing through the car window, Sherlock imagines the colour, size, and texture of the latter. Dark green, standard, and inconspicuous. Sturdy and long-lasting. Big enough to include all of John's jumpers. Right, who was he kidding about the standard size. 

He is ready now, almost ready, he just needs that final push. He needs John to follow his killer instinct and deal the final blow. To be manipulative, devious, and selfish. Not perfect. Perfect. My East Wind. 

“Please, Sherlock - do it for yourself. And if not for yourself, then do it for -- ”

He lets the eyelids drop and whispers his change of mind, interrupting him yet again.

"Right, to the hospital then."

Mate.

Checkmate.

 

John once called him “mate”. It was awkward and unexpected. It sounded wrong. The moment it left John's lips he could see it, lingering in the air between them, something foul and intrusive.  
Right now, it would almost feel appropriate. Almost. But there are other words that encapsulate his contradictions and dilemmas more eloquently. Flatmate. Colleague. Friend. Best man. They all speak to the marrow. They release him. Finally, he can let go. He lets himself be something more. Something more entirely. John's power over him hits him like a crested wave licking away his rough edges, his weak points, his dormant wounds. It's all fine.

A moment later John squeezes his left hand and sends tingling sensations up his arm straight to his heart. There used to be a large cavity in that spot. Although that has never been the whole truth. He's cared for other people. Some of them scratched his heart, others laid their fingers on its surface. He's indulged to some extent, tilted his head and let their affections take place underneath his skin. His reciprocations have always been selfish though. He couldn't let those people go because he needed them; he needed their love even if it was destructive; he needed to feel loved. They say we all do. Wrong. An old cliché. There are exceptions. Any further research on the nature of sentiment has always drained him dry, so naturally, he tried to avoid it as he would Anderson's dirty underwear. One knows it's there somewhere, but there is absolutely no need to seek it out. Unless it was for a case. It would have to be a 10 though. Obviously.

And so he never fully showed his emotions, let alone understood them completely; he just took what it was given to him and lapped it all up like a greedy cat that licks its whiskers after devouring a whole saucer of milk. What they got in return were sarcastic remarks and occasional signs of affection - nothing grand of course. He acknowledged their presence. Most of them left him eventually. Not surprising. Not uncalled for. Some of them stayed. Masochists. Family. One remarkable landlady. His love for John is different though. It is not pure or undemanding. It is not simple or serene. But it is unconditional. And it tries not to be selfish. Sometimes more successfully. "Get away from me, John. Stay well back." Sometimes less so. "Because you chose her."

He is sweating now, drops of perspiration lulling his body to sleep. He rests against the seats that are somehow still cold. Cold and shiny like that marble bench his grandmother used to have in her garden. The memory is suddenly clear among the muddle of hazy thoughts in his mind. Engulfed in sunlight, surrounded by green carnations. His grandfather's initials, carved over the back rest. He was never allowed to sit on it though - “it is not meant for sitting, mon bourdon”.  
Pointless. No point in things that do not have practical usage, no point in reminiscing, no point in filling that cavity with anything else, anyone else, but John. His scalpel. His engraver. His heart. 

Afghanistan or Iraq? 

Which one, John? Which one will you choose? Both dangerous, both alluring, both right, both wrong. Which one?

“I knew you'd let reason prevail in the end. You can't just ignore all that you've taken...Sherlock? Sherlock?!”

He lets go and sinks deeper. He can release the dormant words later when he's in control again, so for the time being he lets them be stitched with a promise of their delivery.

“Signed, sealed, delivered, I'm yours” suddenly rattles around in his mind palace - random cultural trivia occasionally clutters its halls - and it feels almost fitting that he remembers the words of a blind man. It's getting rather personal now. John is shouting and he's about to fall out of consciousness. A few moments is all we have - for now. So I'm going to lay it out, pry it all open...between your yelling and my swooning, it won't be easy to hear or clear enough to understand. Still, you'll know. Pretty damn smart. Here we go:  
No, John, I can't ignore it. And you certainly cannot ignore it either. But you're still blind in your well-deserved worries and wise fear. There's nothing reasonable about my decision to yield to your wishes...I'm led by the fly in the ointment, the crack in the lens. You see, sentiment prevails in the end...it always does. This is a war I must lose. But not on my own. Never again on my own. So I lose to you and no-one else. How are we feeling about that?

Just before he loses consciousness, he feels a desperate touch of fingers on his wrist. John's fingers on his scabbed words. No need to say it then. His elevated pulse will give him away anyway.

Afghanistan. Alright. Back to the beginning, then.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is my first fic ever. No beta...yet. Hope you enjoyed it and thank you so much for reading!! To be continued...I'll probably have to adjust the rating :) 
> 
> Oh, and this is my tumblr mind cottage - feel free to drop by and have a cup of tea anytime
> 
> https://glittermagpie.tumblr.com


End file.
